“You’re not fair.”
“You think chaos is fair?” countered the slender black-haired young woman.
“Or order?” added Heralt.
“You’re all against me,” complained Faltar, spoiling his words with a wry smile.
Cerryl half-listened, watching as Bealtur returned to eat with Kesrik, but neither student spoke, and both ate quickly and left the hall.
“Cerryl. . are you here?”
“Oh. .” He turned to Lyasa. “I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
“About what, I wonder?” Faltar grinned. “Or should I say who?”
“Better not,” countered Cerryl, “or I’ll talk about your dreams.”
Faltar flushed.
“Look at him. . look at him.” Heralt smiled broadly.
“What. . about. . your dreams?” Faltar jabbed, bread still in his hand, toward Lyasa.
“My dreams are mine. And they remain mine.” She raised both eyebrows in high arches.
Cerryl couldn’t help grinning.
“All of you. . all against me. .” protested Faltar.
“Poor Faltar. .”
Everyone laughed, even Faltar.
Later, well after dinner, Cerryl sat on the stool at the desk in his cell, looking blankly at the open pages of Naturale Mathematicks. The formulas and numbers in the dark iron-gall ink seemed written more in the evanescent white of chaos than in solid ordered black ink.
The more he learned the less he knew.
Anya was visiting Faltar in the darkness, shielding herself with ordered chaos. . and Cerryl couldn’t see why. Faltar didn’t have a wealthy family like Kesrik, and he wasn’t powerful like Jeslek or Sterol.
Add to that that the collector tunnels Kesrik was supposed to have cleaned had been cleaned by someone else.
Then. . Myral had warned Cerryl about radiating too much chaos, and then told him about the sewers assigned to Kesrik. The old mage had also told Leyladin about his progress. Had she asked?
A faint smile crossed Cerryl’s face, but he shook his head. She’d been nothing more than friendly. Nothing more than friendly, and somewhat standoffish, he reminded himself.
But what could Cerryl do? How could he protect himself?
Myral had talked about mages burning themselves out, and others like Sterol shielding their chaos powers. Why couldn’t he do both? Let others think he had burned out some of his powers. . but conceal what he could do? Could he do it?
He swallowed.
But why shield? He nodded. Shielding was necessary because mages essentially carried chaos within themselves-or around them. Better to call on chaos or channel it from elsewhere. .
“Large words and thoughts. .” The words almost dribbled from his lips and he glanced around the dark cell. Conceiving of the idea was easy. Working it out in a way convincing to others was a harder problem.
Another smile crossed his lips. He had an entire new sewer collector tunnel to work on, and no one to observe closely.
LXXV
The struggle between the white and the black, between the way of lightness and the powers of darkness, will continue so long as the world endures, for even as the Guild has banished one twisted vine of darkness, yet another springs from the wickedness of the world.
When the ancient white mages had imprisoned the dark forest of Naclos and created the great and peaceful land of Cyador, they believed that they had banished darkness forever, but the demon powers reached and drew mighty champions from far beyond the world, and the black mage Nylan sundered the prison created by the righteousness of Cyador and freed the dark forest.
When Westwind sundered the lands of the west, the white mages of long ago rebuilt the lands of the east into a bastion of light and prosperity, and founded the city of light itself, a beacon unto all the world that light, like the sun from which it comes, always conquers the darkness.
Then, after years of struggle, the white brethren of the Guild at last overthrew the tyranny of Westwind. Yet before the last stone had fallen, before the last female demon had fallen on those defiled heights, the black wind wizard Creslin created another haven for darkness upon the barren isle of Recluce.
In the fullness of time, when Recluce is sundered and split in twain, then, too, will yet another black fortress arise, for never can darkness be overcome, but only conquered and held at bay so long as the right-thinking continue their efforts. .
Yet, we should not consider such efforts as futile, for with each effort, the powers of light have increased and grown more able to provide peace, prosperity, and the providence of life to those who follow the path of light.
LXXVI
CERRYL TRUDGED UP the avenue in the midsummer heat, leading what amounted to his own procession, as he had for almost every late afternoon for more than two seasons. He still found himself straggling somewhat with keeping chaos out of his body, and he had to concentrate to make sure that he drew chaos from around him and did not store it within him the way Jeslek did.
He wasn’t sure, but he thought he felt less tired. That also could have been because he had gotten more in the habit of trying to use the appropriate form of chaos for scouring-the golden yellow light lance for broad expanses where more power was needed, and shorter bursts of the tricolored light lance for corners and angled sections of the tunnels.
Once in a while, he still used firebolts, but those exacted more effort, if more spectacular looking.
A hot summer breeze blew at his back, out of the south, as he put one white-booted foot in front of the other, ignoring for a moment the rivulets of sweat oozing down his back under the too-heavy wool of the white trousers and tunic.
Cerryl glanced to his left, at the green sign outside an open door-a sign showing a white-bronzed ram with curling golden horns. He licked his lips, thinking how good a cool mug of ale would taste. The sounds of drinking and disjointed song from The Golden Ram swirled around him as he passed the doorway, and he frowned as the song called up a brief twinge, not quite a headache. Headaches from storms he understood, but from songs?
After Cerryl had finished fire-scouring the first secondary tunnel Myral had assigned him, the older mage had selected a second, east of the avenue, and to the south, south even of where Nivor the apothecary’s shop was. While his new assignment was not as slime-covered as the first, it smelled even worse.
Behind Cerryl, Ullan’s spear half-tapped, half-dragged on the granite paving stones of the avenue walkway.
“Hot, ser. . real hot,” observed Jyantyl. “Be much longer afore you finish this tunnel?”
“I don’t know. This one turns ahead of where we’ve gotten. I’d say a few more days, maybe an eight-day. That depends on how bad the collectors that are coming up are.” Cerryl wiped his forehead. “There’s also another secondary that joins-it must have been added later, because it’s not on the map. I’ll have to ask Myral about that.”
“Yes, ser.”
A covered wagon groaned past the group, and Cerryl’s eyes followed it momentarily, noting that it held full barrels of something. Ale? Beer? Wine? The dampness at the edge of the wagon bed indicated some liquid that had spilled or overflowed within the wagon.
“Do I need to finish soon?” Cerryl asked.
“Some of us. . they be talking about sending us to Jellico or Rytel.”
“Rytel?”
“Only talk around the barracks, ser.” Jyantyl shrugged. “Some say Axalt is allowing all the free traders to cross into Spidlar that way. Maybe even traders’ guild types.”
Cerryl nodded, not sure he understood but not wanting to confess his ignorance. “So the trouble there. .”
“I don’t pretend to know, ser. . just that there be a storm rising in the north.” The older guard’s eyes flicked toward the wizards’ square, then toward the tower.